Looking Glass

Chapter 6

It's been a few days after, she's sitting in one of the drawing rooms again, by the window sill again. Light shines softly onto the newspaper in her hand, lazy in the afternoon sun, reading.

The culprit is caught, as told by the papers, a robbery gone terribly and tragically wrong. Tragic it was; the rest of the world would go by without a care, while those who had seen the horrors left behind for the families would dwell in grief and nightmares. She'll dream of scenes so bloody.  

She still feels the guilt; she is the reason why the family is dead. The old lady and her two adult children murdered because of her interference. She can't help but wonder if she could have saved Mary Allen and her children without the consequences of today.

The thought is always dashed when she thinks thoroughly about it; there was no way she could have anticipated the outcome, at least that was what she told herself. Whether she could or not, the doubt always lingers in the back of her mind, crawling its way back in a sudden wave when thoughts tangle to deeply while venturing far.

A knock prompts her to turn in time as the door opens, her grandmother standing by the doorway, a reminder on her mouth. "We'll be heading to the opera house later, Maeve. Remember to get ready."

She nods, getting up. It's already mid-afternoon, she might as well begin to prepare, considering how long it always takes to dress. She heaves a sigh at the trouble of having to prepare, padding to the wardrobe to ready and have dinner before the journey.

. . .

The carriage rocks as they are brought to their destination. Small glass of the tiny window provides the view of rolling streets and people walking, a play of its own. She watches it all in a haze, disinterested; it's almost like riding the steam train, but slower. 

The sun begins to laze and sleep when they reach the opera house. A grand building, white marble coloured in yellow and orange in the sunset, two angel sculptures standing guard over the lawn ahead. The sheer size of the building never fails to loom over her like the impending night, dramaticised in a way so wholly fitting.

She steps now from the carriage's small door, following the flow of people gathered to watch a story unfold on stage. The entry is accompanied by another two guardian angels, cream carpet laid on the ground, a guide through the corridor to the hall and seats.

Waiters stand by nooks and crannies, offering champagne glasses on silver trays, sparkling brightly in the dark corners from the gleam of *crystal chandeliers and chrysanthemum shaped lamps. The glow of yellow light is soft, every colour in the hall is saturated, red velvet seats a richer shade, an *illumination and glamour to the fullest.

Clamour and talk fills the hall as more people enter, and a waiter bows at the introduction of their names. They are led up stairs, a private box for their personal enjoyment.

The perks of carrying the Coldwell name. It's standing was, after all, strong in the city.

The privacy allows her more freedom, fortunate, as she tries to stretch her neck inconspicuously as possible. She can't move much, hair and head stiff from the sheer amount of pins in her hair; a move too much and she feels the metal stab her.

She closes her eyes, sinking into the sofa - another perk of her family's standing, fingering her dress through gloved hands. Her dress was as uncomfortable as her hair as it was beautiful; tight and utterly unplesant. 

The saying went after all; Il faut souffrir pour être belle,  one must suffer to be beautiful.

Gauzy fabric, dark forest green. It left most of her shoulder bare, squared collar adorned in layered fabric, a single centrepiece of emerald laying atop. Puff sleaves are slightly darker and similar shade in frills, structured lines connecting to the waist, green all the way down, flared and framed in dark embroidery following lines.

Strings of pearls loop around her neck, shining in the soft light.

Her grandmother wears a similar style, different in details and colour, her father sitting next to her. Conversation flows, a conversation she doesn't want to have.

"Now that the police have closed the case, we finally have peace and quiet." Poison she can hear in the words, and her father hums in agreement, more so distracted by the streams of more people entering the hall.

Her lips are set in a thin line, recalling the additional visits after the first one. She can still feel and see the indignation her grandmother wore at each visit of questions clearly. Shouts were received coolly, and she thanks the lord that every police officer had dully ignored them; though she knew and the annoyance and headaches were there.

A sigh, oh, she certainly hopes that no such incident would ever happen again, lest the trouble that came along. As much as she didn't mind them carrying out duty, her grandmother did.

Noise begins to hush, and she extends her neck a little to look out of the curtains. Everyone is seated, the clock reading thirty minutes till nine. Wine red curtains lined in gold shuffle, slow movements of being drawn.

The reveal of the first scene, the play begins.

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Author's Note

Heyyyyy. So,  I've hit the 8k milestone!!!! :D The French verse above is an old saying of which I found dating back 1883, on an engraving. The translation above was from what I could find too, and, I have no knowledge of French entirely, so, if anyone who understands the language and the translation is wrong, please to tell me and I will change it to be more accurate XD.

Again, thanks so much for reading Looking Glass!!!